


Lot Thirty Seven - The Vault

by AceOfShadows



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (not graphic), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Consequences for lying to God and giving away Holy Weapons, Crowley has psychometric abilities, Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Curses, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Near Discorporation, Occult and Ethereal Auctions, Post NotApocalypse, Pre-Relationship, Summoning, Wing Grooming, cw: referenced Gabriel being awful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-11 08:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShadows/pseuds/AceOfShadows
Summary: What should have been a simple night at an auction house - pick up anything too dangerous to be left lying around, watch a bunch of humans argue over fake occult items and then return to the bookstore with Aziraphale for copious amounts of alcohol - goes terribly wrong when Crowley discovers the auction house owner, Mallory, is hiding something far more dangerous in his vault than he was letting on.An Ethereal something to be exact.Which leaves Crowley to wonder - how exactly did he not realise Aziraphale was missing?





	1. A Night At the Auction

It is in the nature of human beings to collect things, to gather hoards to themselves and show them off like preening magpies (magpies had, of course, learned this behaviour from _certain_ angels who shall remain nameless). This is especially true of things that human beings should definitely _not_ be collecting, and in fact should leave very well alone - but, as was evidenced at the beginning of all things, that which is forbidden is only coveted more strongly. 

Much to the amusement of those who were not human, of course.

There is an auction house in central London that is well known to those with an interest in fine art and antiquities, and indeed is very popular for people interested in purchasing such things. It has many high ceilinged halls with wooden floors polished within an inch of their lives, perfect for displaying the lots going up for auction in the afternoon. The staff are unfailingly courteous, considerate and surprisingly knowledgeable about the varied lots that come through their doors, and the patrons that provide them. It is ostentatious to the extreme, because that is the image that is expected of it.

What is _not_ well known, or expected in any way, however, is that this particular auction house has become a hot spot for a rather different kind of auction. The staff become more discreet, the clientele are significantly wealthier and more paranoid and attend by invitation only, and the lots are kept locked in a high security vault until they are brought upstairs to be revealed to the waiting bidders.

After all, when dealing with occult objects (and those interested in purchasing them), secrecy was a top priority. 

Crowley huffed a dramatic sigh from his seat in the back row, flashing an obnoxious smile at the woman who turned to glare at him as he pulled out his phone. Fifteen minutes until the auction started and the seat next to him was still conspicuously empty.

He was most certainly not worried.

Not in the _slightest._

It was simply a nuisance, that was all. Aziraphale still had ten minutes to show up, and he undoubtedly would - it would not do if he left Crowley on his own for this whole debacle.

Crowley dialled the shop for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, absent-mindedly letting it ring out as he glared at the door, willing the angel to walk through, all polite and apologetic with some excuse about…saving a baby or some such Heavenly duty.

Time ticked on, and the phone did not stop ringing (Aziraphale had no answering machine, of course) and Crowley growled low in his throat as he jabbed the disconnect button.

Aziraphale had _never _skipped out on a night out with him. Ever.

His leg bounced irritably as he slouched low in his chair. He never liked coming to these things - watching pretentious people swindling other pretentious people into spending as much money as possible on junk (and cursed junk too sometimes) just wasn’t his idea of fun. Aziraphale at least made it slightly more interesting.

Occult auctions were one of the few things that both Heaven and Hell were interested in - Crowley was tasked with “purchasing” anything that was Real and potentially dangerous to demons, while also cursing a few ordinary objects to cause some extra chaos; Aziraphale was equally tasked with ensuring that anything Dangerous was purchased and then later destroyed. Of course, under their usual Arrangement, only one of them would be needed to buy all the Real and Dangerous objects, and cause a little extra mischief along the way. Unfortunately, due to the nature of certain objects, their auras made them undetectable to either an Angel or a Demon (usually ones that would be harmful to one or the other).

This had given rise to what Aziraphale had affectionally dubbed The Exception: work together to buy anything Real, split it up later (Crowley could work some low level mischief in the background) and then write up some suitably dramatic reports over several bottles of wine back at the bookshop.

It was all very well and good until _someone _didn’t turn up.

Nowadays though, things were a bit different, post-failed Apocalypse and all. These days, their presence at the auctions was more to keep dangerous items out of the hands of any _other_ agents of Heaven and Hell that might be interested in picking up a weapon or two to help deal with a Hellfire immune rogue angel and a Holy Water immune rogue demon. Meant he and Aziraphale could sit together at these things at the very least.

How was Crowley supposed to sense anything anti-Demon that might show up in tonight’s auction without an angel in the room? For that matter, how was he supposed to carry out any blessed objects without burning himself to pieces?

Ten minutes until the auction began. They’d be distributing the list of lots by now, and security would be locking the front doors to the auction house - if Aziraphale wasn’t in the building by now, he’d have to miracle himself in. And sure enough, when Crowley stirred himself enough to sit up and look, the staff were making their way through the rows handing out the programme and encouraging the groups of people still chatting in the aisles to take their assigned seats.

_Where are you, Aziraphale?_

He couldn’t be in trouble - Crowley would know if he was in trouble. He could never explain how he knew, he just did. They both just knew when and where to show up when the other one needed them the most.

Crowley closed his eyes, letting the gentle human noise wash over him and out of his awareness as he cast his senses out farther. Out of the auditorium, into the entrance hall, down all the little corridors and up all the staircases, anywhere and everywhere the shadows reached. Something was distinctly _off_ in the auction house tonight, he hadn’t been able to pin it down before. There was a… _tightness_ in the building, like a spring coiled just too far, ready to snap at the next twist. He let his jaw open slightly as he took a deep breath.

_Fear._

His eyes flickered open and he closed his jaw with a snap. How had he missed that? He let his gaze roam over the staff, seeing their pale tense faces, the stiffness to their movements hidden under practiced smiles and courtesy. Every single one of them _reeked_ of fear.

Just what was going on with this place tonight?

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please?” Crowley’s head jerked round to the stage so fast that had he been human, he would have given himself whiplash.

An elderly man now stood at the microphone, his smile as false as the archangel Gabriel’s, his suit tailored within an inch of its life. Crowley resisted the urge to sneer in disgust - no human would be able to tell, but even from the very back of the hall, he could smell the taint of cursed objects - what had he done, climbed into Satan’s _bath_? - and yes, when he squinted he could see that one of the man’s hands had been bleached of all colour, stripped down to skeletal thinness.

Whoever this man was, he handled cursed objects regularly enough that they had seriously, permanently even, damaged him.

“Before we begin the auction tonight, I requested the chance to speak with you all,” he began, in a scratching wheezing voice. “Tonight’s collection…the collection you will be bidding on…consists on thirty-six items from my own private collection. Many of these are the pride of my collection—”

The audience erupted into whispered scandalous speculation - not a single one of them would have given up a piece of their own collections.

The man smiled, holding up a perfectly manicured hand for silence. “Friends, please, cease. Allow me to say only this: my collection is dear to me, but I have found something which is dearer than all these things combined.” His smile slipped from false to genuine for a flickering moment and Crowley’s skin crawled in response. “Which is why there is, in fact, a _thirty-seventh _lot.”

More whispered speculation overtook the audience as they fluttered through their programs, which, sure enough, stopped at the description of lot thirty-six - a solid silver spinning top, four and a half inches, engraved with an “unknown script”, and would, apparently, begin to spin itself in the presence of demons.

“Lot thirty-seven—” the man continued, raising his papery voice above the noise of the audience. “—is rather, _hem_, non traditional. It will not be an item for sale, per se, but rather, you will be bidding on an _experience_. The winner of this lot may accompany me down to the vault beneath the auction house and examine the priceless item I acquired just three days ago. While the item in question is not for sale_, _and I really must stress that fact, I can assure you all - it will definitely be worth your time and curiosity.”

Crowley barely managed to muffle a snort, and received a glare from the lady in front of him yet again. _Humans. _The more money they had, the greater their level of gullibility and stupidity - throw in rare “occult” (whether real or otherwise) items and it multiplied their stupidity by a factor of ten at the very least. Still, he was curious to see just what warranted such a special auction, as well as a ridiculous amount of money for the “experience” of seeing it.

Aziraphale was going to miss the most exciting auction in the last fifty years - or maybe the most boring. Crowley looked at his phone again and shoved it back into his pocket. Of course he hadn’t phoned, the daft angel was probably nose deep in a book by now, oblivious to the passage of time. It had happened before.

Just. Not when the Arrangement was involved.

He looked up just in time to see the man slowly making his way to his chair at the far left of the stage - Crowley had filtered out most of the closing speech, except his name, Grayson Mallory - _oh_, the owner of the auction house. He frowned, he could have sworn Mallory was a lot younger than the man on stage, he was in his forties wasn’t he? The Grayson Mallory on the stage had to be at least sixty, maybe even seventy. Not that he was good at guessing human ages, but he was better at it than Aziraphale was.

Mallory stumbled the last few steps to his chair, and sank into it with a weary sigh. His withered hand crept up to his neck, grasping at the chain half hidden beneath his waistcoat. A shiver ran unpleasantly up Crowley’s spine as he watched Mallory grab something small and white at the end of the chain, hiding it from view.

Whatever that was, it set off every alarm bell that Crowley possessed. So much so that he almost missed the whispered argument between three staff members at the doors, so when he did finally manage to quieten his mind enough to tune in, he only caught the tail end of it.

“—shouldn’t have gone in the vault in the first place!”

“—wouldn’t stop screaming—”

“Hush. The auction is starting, just keep everyone upstairs and away from the vault.”

He had a very very bad feeling about all this.

Crowley tried to pay attention to the first lot being brought out onto the stage - the grimoire of a fifteenth century warlock who had, according to the auctioneer, discovered how to summon fire spirits to guide him to wherever he wanted to go. Crowley vaguely remembered that warlock: good for a bottle of wine, very bad at knife juggling, and certainly very flammable. Memorably so.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unable to stop his eyes from straying over to Mallory. He should be watching the auction, that grimoire was probably something he should be stopping the humans from taking home, but he just could not settle down. The audience was already getting antsy around him as the bidding on the book grew fierce.

After twenty minutes of rapid bidding, cursing and scowling, the grimoire finally went to a man in the front row with an exceptionally smug moustache (No, he didn’t know what made the moustache smug, it just _was_), and by then Crowley had had enough.

There was a game demons were fond of playing - and by “game”, they really meant “a form of self-preservation”, and by playing, they meant “using in order to avoid the notice of avenging angels fond of smiting” - and it was rather useful for those up to no good around human kind. If it had a name, lesser demons would have termed it something simple like “Notice-Me-Not” but Crowley was not one of them.

He stood up from his chair, drawing on the minor miracle that allowed human awareness to simply slide past him without asking too many awkward questions. Anyone who _did_ manage to notice him found that they forgot seeing him only a few moments later, or confused him with someone else, say someone who did, in fact, have permission to go or do whatever Crowley was doing at the time. Of course it wouldn’t work if Crowley was doing anything particularly dramatic, or that might hurt them - then their own self-preservation instincts would kick in and the illusion would break.

As it was, it was enough to get Crowley out of the auction room - lot two was just coming onto the stage (a glass orb that apparently held angel tears, which Crowley noted absently was definitely a fake, it was the wrong colour for angel tears for a start) and the noise of the audience was an excellent cover for his sneaking away.

Now what?

The auction house was not a building Crowley had ever actually explored before - usually he just came in, bid on whatever he was supposed to, and left again as soon as he could. He’d had no desire or reason to go wandering around, and as such, actually had no idea where the vault was. He hissed past his teeth, standing at the top of two staircases that curved downwards in opposite directions. The vault was _down_, but which down? Left or right? Who in their right mind had designed this place?

He took a deep breath, letting the impression of the room wash over him - humans were messy, they left imprints on _everything_. Their scents, their emotions, their memories were stamped firmly, noisily, on objects they even slightly brushed against. For someone like Crowley, for whom reading the history of most objects was as simple as breathing, it only required the lightest touch to glean everything he needed to know. Of course, it was a lot more difficult if he was reading something occult, or had been handled by an angel or a demon. There were a lot of very blank objects in the bookshop, for example, that had long since forgotten any human impressions. It was…oddly peaceful.

But to the matter at hand: he brushed his fingers lightly over the banister of the stairs on the right. Sweat and frustration, _another glass of wine, no one would know—_relief, not late, _not going to get fired today—_panic, bewilderment, heart pounding, _it was just here a moment ago—_

Crowley yanked his hand away. Nothing more than the comings and goings of the overworked staff. Their break room must be down those stairs then, tucked away from the prying eyes of guests and patrons alike.

_Which means…_

With a pleased smirk, he set off down the lefthand stairs, feeling the guilty pleasure of buyers layered over anticipation as he let the impressions from the banister sink in. Oh yes, the vault was definitely this way. Mortal greed was a very distinct impression.

Plush carpets muffled the sound of his steps as he descended down the dimly lit stairs. The stairs went down a considerable way farther than he would have anticipated, curving down into darkness, as the lights became more functional but fewer, and the carpet of the auction house giving way to iron-wrought steps that clanged unpleasantly with every footfall.

It was distinctly reminiscent of the escalators that led into Hell. Crowley didn’t like that reminder one bit.

And then he fell.

This was no vague saunter, no casual descent; his foot hit the edge of the next step and he windmilled for a terrified moment - if his heart had needed to beat, it would have stopped in sheer shock, even so, his breath caught, choking back a yell - before landing painfully on his back and sliding uncontrollably down the remaining steps to land in a boneless heap at the bottom.

He groaned, feeling simultaneously horrified, embarrassed and very determined to find _who_ had designed this building and put the fear of Satan in them. And if they were already dead, he would find their soul and throttle them anyway. Stairs. In the dark.

Whatever was down here, whatever Mallory was giving up half his precious collection for, had better be damn well worth it.

Crowley let himself lie there for a moment, feeling an ache spread through all of his limbs. He ran a hand over his face and then clicked his fingers. A light, soft yellow and pulsing, sprang into existence, casting the room into relief.

In sharp contrast to the opulence above, this room was dark, drab and cluttered - even the presence of Crowley’s little light wasn’t enough to illuminate everything that had been stuffed into it. Wooden boxes were stacked high, haphazardly, as if they had been hastily packed and shifted. Crowley frowned, levering himself upright - he’d been lucky enough not to crash into any of them falling down the stairs. Shouldn’t these be _in_ the vault?

The wall opposite the stairs was what really caught his attention - a massive vault door dominated, unnecessary large and showy, exactly the sort of vault door that rich clients would feel reassured by. As Crowley approached it, with a hesitant (and definitely not limping) step, he could see that the entirely of the steel door was etched with tiny esoteric protection symbols from across the world. He snorted. Most of them were either drawn wrong or just plain ineffective for keeping anything safe. There were a few that Crowley could feel _some_ power from, but they were so scattered and without any support that they were next to useless. It might keep out all but the best human thieves, but it was certainly not keeping out anything occult.

_In fact… _Crowley pushed one of the boxes to one side, and smirked - there was a tiny patch of moss creeping out from around the hinges of the vault door. The humans would have no clue, especially with all the boxes stacked here there and everywhere, but if they didn’t deal with it soon, the devil’s moss would eat everything in this room, including the stairs especially with all this darkness for it to flourish in. It was small now, but Crowley knew plants and this one could easily consume the entire auction house in a week if left alone.

He knelt down, gave the moss a gentle pat of encouragement and a hissed _grow better_ for extra encouragement and then turned his attention back to the door. It was time to find out what exactly Mallory was hiding in here, what it was that was so very important to him.

With a snap of his fingers, the vault door swung open. Crowley had to take a step back to avoid being hit, which mildly ruined his dramatic moment, but there was no one around to see - he could always embellish it later for Aziraphale.

Crowley stepped into the vault, taking a deep breath of the stale, recycled air as the cheap electric lights flickered to life. The room stank: human fear and sweat mostly, layered over old greed, and then faintly buried underneath it all was the sharp scent of pain with the metallic tang of blood.

He barely noticed the door swinging shut behind him, the pneumatic hiss of the seals sliding back into place, his attention entirely absorbed by the interior of the room instead. He wasn’t entirely sure what horrified him the most. In truth, _everything_ in the room was horrifying in rather equal amounts.

The vault should have held various display cases, tables and occult objects, all perfectly preserved and waiting to be taken up to the auction - the usual objects, of course, as Crowley had seen, had been shoved out front to make space for all of…this.

A thick black curtain sealed off the back half of the vault, heavy and ominous, and frankly if Crowley could get away without looking behind it, he’d be grateful. He knew he would have to eventually, of course, but the more he could put it off, the happier he’d be. Whatever was hidden back there was plainly a new addition to the room, he noted, eyeing the scrapes in the paint on the walls, and hastily done too. That never boded well.

Dominating the right side of the room were piles of books, scattered on tables and stuffed into a massive bookcase that had seen better days. Crowley stepped towards them and then wrinkled his nose in distaste - they were mostly occult books, nasty ones if you had the wit to hear the horrible things they whispered, others were unpleasant, but mostly harmless - a few were lying open, with notes scribbled in the margins or covered in post-it notes. He imagined that if he’d had to listen to some of the nastier books for a while, it might drive him to be _very unpleasant. _He hissed a warning at some of the noisier books (one of which had said downright unkind things about Crowley’s hair) and they finally shushed.

To his left was a table covered in tools and bottles and a large briefcase, all looking very scientific and very much out of place. The bottles were filled with a golden fluid that made Crowley extremely uneasy to even look at, but he forced himself to approach. The tools had been meticulously cleaned and scrubbed within an inch of their lives, but there was an energy about them that made his stomach lurch whenever he went to pick one up. He took a deep breath, reluctantly flipped open the briefcase instead with an idle hand.

He retched, staggering back from the table.

_It wasn’t a briefcase at all._

The display case unfolded smoothly, revealing dozens of feathers, pearlescent and glowing dimly, all neatly strapped into their proper place. He forced himself to look again; it seemed there were at least two of each kind of feather, from the large primaries all the way through the structure of the wing to tiny pinfeathers and soft down, and the base of most of the shafts were broken and dipped in a golden sheen. _Like the liquid in the bottles, _he thought distantly.

Oh it was _disgusting_. These weren’t moulted feathers; these had been pulled out. Brutally in some cases - which explained the strange energy on the tools. Violence done to an angel’s wings left marks for years. Crowley’s own wings shivered in sympathy, safely tucked away in their celestial plane.

Crowley’s bad feeling was getting worse by the second.

He picked his way across the vault, careful not to touch anything, or disturb any of the chalk lines and symbols that covered the floor. He didn’t want any of the feelings from this room lingering on his hands - or in his nightmares; he wanted to leave and get outrageously drunk as soon as possible.

His feet dragged as he approached the curtain. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could go. And the longer he dithered, the more likely it was that Mallory would send someone down to the vault to check on his precious items - or even that the auction would finish and Mallory and his “lucky winner” of lot thirty-seven would be down for their delightful little visit.

Crowley grabbed hold of the curtain and yanked it aside (_fear, excitement, nausea, glee_, all rippled from the curtain in a disgusting wave over his senses).

Behind the curtain was a massive display case, stretching from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling; made entirely of glass, save for the solid metal door that was jammed up against one wall. But there was no object on display, no statue or artefact he could miracle away. Up against the far wall, however, was a small crumpled figure, huddled beneath gold-stained tattered wings, frighteningly still. Crowley covered his mouth with a hand. He would know those wings anywhere. He known them for six thousand years.

_“Aziraphale.”_

The angel stirred feebly, his feathers fanning a little, only enough that Crowley could see his eyes peeking through, glazed and heavy, but with no recognition - only pain, fear and exhaustion…

Crowley pressed his hands up against the glass, forgetting himself.

“Aziraphale,” he called softly. “It’s Crowley, I’m here.”

_“…the priceless item I acquired just three days ago…”_ Mallory’s speech from the start of the auction flickered back through his mind, and rage washed over Crowley. Three days. Aziraphale had been here, being tortured for _three days_ and he hadn’t even known. And the humans had been torturing him. _Humans._ Aziraphale had given up everything for human beings, and this was how they treated him?

Crowley’s demonic aura flared, responding to his anger, and the glass beneath his hands shattered into tiny shards. Aziraphale flinched, eyes snapping shut and his wings covering him tighter.

“_Shit.”_ Crowley immediately reined in his emotions, shoving them back down. That was dumb. The last thing Aziraphale needed was a psychic blast of rage from a demon. “Sorry, Aziraphale, sorry. Just…shit. Hang on.”

The angel did not move or open his eyes again. Crowley stepped into the case - the _cage_ he corrected himself viciously, because that’s what it truly was - and stumbled, overcome by a sudden dizzy spell. He spat a curse, looking down at the floor again and seeing, for the first time, the myriad of sigils and runes that had been etched onto the stone floor. Not enough to contain even a lesser demon, but enough to slow him down and hobble his magic.

_Doesn’t matter. Aziraphale first._

He knelt by the angel’s side, his hands ghosting over broken feathers, hesitant to move Aziraphale’s wings himself without warning. Even damaged as they were, if he got spooked, those wings would certainly be strong enough to send Crowley flying.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here - lift your wing, there’s a good angel.”

There was a plaintive muffled whine, and then very slowly, the uppermost wing began to retract with none of its usual smooth grace - it jerked and stuttered and then finally collapsed into a half-folded heap on Aziraphale’s back.

The angel himself was in no better shape - he was bound hand and foot with thick iron shackles that had been fixed to floor by heavy chains, and a gag had been tied painfully tight about his mouth. Crowley was painfully reminded of the time he had rescued Aziraphale from his near-beheading at the Bastille, but there was no playful twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes now, no witty dramatic banter. Even with a cursory once over Crowley could see the many tiny cuts that peppered the angel, the needle marks, and his natural glow was subdued to an unhealthy wanness.

“Oh,” he sighed, mostly to himself. “What have they done to you?”

He ran his hands lightly over the gag and shackles, wishing them away with a miracle that should have only taken an instant, but in this awful place it took an age, made worse by the fact that Aziraphale shivered fearfully beneath him the entire time - though his natural glow did return a little once he was free. Crowley had to force down another wave of rage, plastering a reassuring smile on his face that he did not feel at all. He would only feel better once Aziraphale was safe and healed.

“Let’s get you home. The bookstore. My flat. Anywhere that isn’t here, you know.”

Slowly, and with a great deal of care, he manoeuvred Aziraphale onto his back, trying to jostle him as little as possible - but even so, the damaged wings still trailed on the floor, feathers dragging through the glass dust. In any other situation, he would have just carried Aziraphale out, but with his wings fully manifested (and injured), it would only be awkward (and painful) for both of them.

“_Cr-cr’ley?_” Aziraphale’s voice breathed in his ear, barely audible. His hands weakly gripped Crowley’s jacket for support.

“I got you, angel, just relax. I’m getting you out of here.”

“_The f’thers—the circle—”_ Aziraphale’s voice kept breaking, and Crowley could feel him straining to get the words out. “_Sum’ning circle.”_

A chill ran up Crowley’s spine. A summoning circle. Great. That would be how they’d managed all this.

He breathed sharply through his nose. “Not to worry. I’ll handle it, and the feathers too, all of it. Let’s just get you somewhere safe first.”

Aziraphale, thankfully, did not protest, his forehead pressed against Crowley’s shoulder. He shifted his grip, lifting Aziraphale a little higher on his back (He adamantly _refused_ to call it a piggy back. He would _not)._

Step by tottering step, demon and angel made slow progress out of the vault - Aziraphale was not heavy by any means, but his wings dragged against the floor despite Crowley’s best efforts, and he did not dare move any faster and risk reopening some unseen injury. The last thing either of them needed was Aziraphale to cry out and alert Mallory to the fact his “priceless item” was being carried away right under his nose.

An angel being stolen by a demon. Crowley would have laughed if he’d had any attention to spare.

He kept up a steady murmuring of reassurances as they made their way back up the spiral staircase - he couldn’t be sure Aziraphale heard any of it, in fact he was almost certain that the angel was unconscious by now. Was that better? He didn’t appear to be in any danger of immediate discorporation, and wouldn’t that be a nightmare and a half?

Crowley tottered out into the main reception hall, mostly _not_ out of breath, thank you very much. He was _definitely_ going to dig up whoever had designed those stairs and throttle them anew. Had they never heard of elevators? Proper spooky, elevators. Especially if they led down to a sinister vault full of cursed objects.

Though, knowing his luck, there would be an elevator somewhere and he’d lugged the angel up the stairs for nothing. That would just so typical, a grand cosmic joke—

A startled gasp broke through his ranting thoughts.

Crowley’s head snapped towards the noise, his sunglasses disappearing in a blink. Stupid, stupid demon, he’d forgotten to miracle another perception filter around them, he’d been so focused on trying to keep Aziraphale together and complaining about the stairs—

The woman stared back at him with frightened brown eyes, her hands covering her mouth. She had been coming up the staff stairs opposite, her uniform rumpled, her face tear-stained.

And for the third time that night, Crowley’s heart froze, forgetting to beat, as he locked eyes with the woman. He really didn’t want to hurt her—but she must have known, they all must have known, they’d kept Aziraphale down there—the suppressed rage in his chest flared hot and he gritted his teeth—any second now, she would scream and people would rush out, and they would take Aziraphale away again, and lock Crowley up as well if they could. They’d managed to successfully hold an angel against his will - a Principality no less - for three days. Holding circles for demons were far more commonly known than angelic ones; it was a holdover from the days when the Archangels had used the humans to hunt down and capture demons for them, rather than stir themselves to action.

Could he tackle her before she screamed? Both of his hands were occupied holding Aziraphale up, and he didn’t want to drop him. But he had to do something—

Aziraphale’s fingers tightened on Crowley’s jacket, almost imperceptibly so, a gentle restraint, and then with a great deal of effort, lifted his head.

The woman’s gaze snapped to Aziraphale, and she took a step back, recognition lighting her features. “You—You can’t be—”

“Please,” Aziraphale interrupted - and Crowley’s chest tightened, only a great deal of screaming could have reduced the angel’s voice to this hoarse, broken plea. “You never saw us. You’re going home now.”

“I-I—” the woman’s face softened into a frown, dark eyes glazing with confusion. “I think I need to go home, I’m not feeling very well.”

“Go home,” Aziraphale urged. “Go home, and _forget_.” A faint blue light flared out the corner of Crowley’s eyes and he quickly looked away. The woman sighed softly, a relaxed blissful noise, and then turned and went back down the stairs without even a second glance at them. Aziraphale’s head thumped back down on Crowley’s shoulder with a groan.

Crowley hurried forward again, making a beeline for the doors, wrapping them both in a perception filter, as he should have done the first time. “That was so _stupid_. How can you be so clever and so stupid at the same time? You should be saving your strength to heal, not miracling some girl’s memories away. I could have handled her.”

“There’s been enough violence here of late, dear boy,” Aziraphale mumbled, his voice muffled by Crowley’s jacket.

Crowley hissed in annoyance, readjusting his grip on Aziraphale’s legs, and tried not to feel too guilty when Aziraphale whimpered. There would be a lot more violence tonight, if Crowley had anything to say about it. But if Aziraphale knew about that, he would make _that face_ and then Crowley would feel bad.

But once Aziraphale was safely out of harm’s way… well then Crowley would happily burn the whole building down, guilt-free.

There were, miraculously, no guards by the doors or any staff in the entrance hall as Crowley stomped through, and the doors sprang open at a thought. The Bentley was parked just outside, or at least Crowley’s imagination assured him it would be because he _needed_ it to be. The old car had appeared exactly at the bottom of the steps, looking oddly larger than usual, and the rear door (that hadn’t existed until a moment ago) sprang open as they approached.

“Right,” Crowley said. “Almost there, angel. I’m going to put you down now, okay?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond, but seemed lucid enough as Crowley gently let him slide down off his back - though he did not once let go of the angel, too afraid that if he did so, Aziraphale would simply buckle. As it was, it was an awkward effort to wrangle the barely conscious angel, wings and all, into the back seats of the car, which had flattened themselves helpfully in order to make room for Aziraphale’s wings.

Grey eyes blinked slowly open from the shadowy interior of the car as Crowley finished tucking Aziraphale’s feet in and draped his coat over the shivering angel’s shoulders. “Crowley… it hurts.”

“The pain will pass, Aziraphale, all things do,” Crowley reassured him, straightening up. “Stay here and _rest_. I mean it, don’t go getting blood all over the seats, okay?” He tried for a small self-assured smile, and wasn’t entirely certain he’d succeeded. “I won’t be long, I promise."

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in panic as Crowley shut the door, his mouth opening in silent pained protest as the car doors locked and the demon walked away. Crowley pretended not to notice. It was for his own good. He’d be safe in the car, and Crowley needed both hands free in order to deal with everything he’d seen down in the vault.

Rain began to fall slowly as Crowley ascended back up the steps to the auction house, a new pair of sunglasses dropping into his hand. He slid them on, and got to work.

All things pass, he’d told Aziraphale, and they did.

Such a shame that that included mortals too.


	2. Like a Bat Out of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an author abuses italics, Crowley swears a great deal, and Mallory gets exactly what he deserves.
> 
> Soft Epilogue tomorrow.

Later, witnesses would be hard pressed to recall what exactly had happened when the old auction house had caught fire. Some would recall a red-haired man walking calmly out of the flames, carrying a briefcase, and others would argue that no, it was a plastic Tesco bag; some would not have noticed the man, but instead would have noticed the number of cars speeding away into the night, as wealthy patrons fled empty handed from a private auction, including a very old Bentley; and those who were keen-eyed among the witnesses would have noticed only that despite the fact that the building had caught fire very suddenly, not a single person was hurt or killed.

A great deal more of the witnesses were far more unreliable - reporting bright flashes of intense purple-black light, men with wings, screaming ghosts that emerged from the burning building, and a suit of armour that had partially melted from the heat and had walked out into the street asking for directions to the Sainte Chapelle of Paris in very broken French.

Investigators would eventually that the fire had _not_ been the result of arson, but had in fact been a gas leak that had eventually combusted, igniting a number of hallucinogenic chemicals - the fumes of which had spilled out onto the surrounding streets.

They were, of course, very wrong.

A red haired man had left the auction house, just after it had caught fire - not walking calmly, but sprinting out, covered in soot and ash, carrying both a briefcase that was not a briefcase and a plastic Tesco bag that clinked unpleasantly. He had flung himself into drivers seat, tossed both briefcase and bag into the passengers seat and the Bentley had roared forward with little prompting from its driver or even a key in the ignition.

Streetlights blurred past as the Bentley sped through central London with no regard for physics or traffic laws. Crowley clung to the steering wheel, white knuckled, and allowed himself a grim smug smile as several fire engines blared their way down the street.

Devil's moss was such a wonderful plant.

His smile died as quickly as it had come when he glanced over his shoulder at his passenger.

It would be easy to think that Aziraphale had lapsed back into unconsciousness, had it not been for the faint shivering of his feathers and the small whimpers that escaped from between his clenched teeth any time the car swerved too hard. One of his hands clung desperately to the door handle by his head, stained golden with angelic blood - in the faint amber light of the passing streetlights, Crowley could see further golden stains spreading wetly across his leather seats.

“It’s all right, angel, almost there,” he said, mostly for his own reassurance, uncertain if Aziraphale was even present enough to hear him.

Aziraphale gave a soft whine, but didn’t answer as one of his wings jerked dramatically, smacking against the roof of the car.

“_Shit—” _the Bentley swerved for a moment as Crowley twisted around to reach out stop the flailing wing. “Aziraphale, just hang on—”

He’d never seen the angel so distressed, and he wasn’t even really conscious. Whatever the humans had done to him had really taken a toll. _Is he getting worse? _

Crowley was out of the car, throwing open the rear passenger door before the Bentley had even come to a complete stop. Another cry escaped Aziraphale as he thrashed weakly, feverish and half-caught in a dream. Crowley crawled into the back seat, narrowly ducking a spasming wing and lunging to take hold of Aziraphale’s free hand.

Holding Aziraphale’s hand was like trying to grab lightning, explosively painful, electrifying and thrilling all at once. Tingling shocks ran up his arm and his muscles spasmed with the raw power of it all. The angel’s eyes snapped open and a white light poured from his eyes as he screamed. Crowley screamed with him, flinging an arm over his eyes to protect them from the Heavenly glow and a roar echoed in his ears. He was burning, slowly, agonisingly, consumed by the sheer divine force that was the Principality sometimes known simply as Aziraphale. They were both being pulled apart, disintegrating atom by atom by Aziraphale’s Grace—

And then the light was gone.

Crowley dropped Aziraphale’s hand with a reflexive flinch, tumbling backwards off the seat and into the foot-space beneath him. His breath came in desperate gulps and he shook like one newly Fallen.

_What the actual fuck?_

He’d never seen an angel claw their way back from discorporation, nor had he ever seen quite such a…dramatic near-discorporation before. Who knew that angels could use discorporating as a way to give the nearest demon a one-way ticket to Extinction? Not Crowley, that’s for sure, else he might have been a little more careful about rescuing Aziraphale in the past.

Maybe.

Not likely. 

Crowley took a deep steadying breath, taking a moment to untangle his sprawled limbs and lever himself upright. Aziraphale’s eyes were still open, back their normal bluish-grey-green, but they were glazed and unseeing, watching something far beyond the Bentley and Crowley.

The demon sighed, miracling himself up a pair of gloves before touching Aziraphale again. He gripped the angel’s chin gently, turning his face this way and that and looking deep into his eyes, but there was no recognition or reaction, just a blank unresponsive stare. He sighed again, wriggling himself out of the car.

Getting Aziraphale out of the car and into the flat was infinitely more difficult that Crowley had imagined, and far more difficult than it had been to get him _into_ the car in the first place. At least then he had been conscious enough to be helpful - now he was just a deadweight with wings, and now Crowley was exhausted, trembling and down to his last few miracles. 

Crowley stood at the bottom of the stairs, heaving for breath, an unconscious angel draped across his shoulders and swore violently. The universe _hated_ him today, didn’t it? Or God did anyway.

“Come _on_,” he cursed under his breath, sending his thoughts directly at Her. “I’m trying to—he’s one of Your’s isn’t he? Do us a favour here.”

_As you wish._

There was a moment of silence, a heartbeat and then a disorienting rush of air. When Crowley next opened his eyes, he and Aziraphale were standing in the bedroom of his flat, looking a little more windswept, but otherwise as if they hadn’t moved at all.

Crowley swayed on his feet, slightly overbalanced. “Uh—_huh_—um, thanks? Guess She still likes you, huh, Aziraphale.” The angel didn’t respond and Crowley sighed. “All right, let’s set you down here—”

He gently lowered Aziraphale to the bed, and the angel just sat there, his stare still blank and vacant but he didn’t buckle as Crowley had expected. That was somehow even more worrying. He waved a hand in front of those blank eyes and pulled a face. Still nothing.

Trauma response? Maybe. Well, he had plenty of experience with trauma.

“All right, Aziraphale—” first things first, get him cleaned up, figure out the extent of his injuries and heal up what he could. Aziraphale had spent three days imprisoned, he’d probably appreciate a bath more than a miracle-clean. “—I’m going to run you a bath, is that okay? I’m not sure I can fix your clothes, I’m a bit low on the miracle front, but you might be able to when you’re feeling a bit stronger.”

He was babbling, and he knew he was - he talks when he’s stressed, he always has - but as soon as he tried to walk away towards the bathroom, Aziraphale’s hand snapped out and closed around his wrist. Crowley looked down at his hand and then back up at Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale had turned, at last, towards him, his eyes bright with distress. Crowley took a step back towards him and the angel’s grip on his wrist loosened a little. 

“I’ll just be in the bathroom, angel,” Crowley pointed to the ensuite with his free hand. “Just there, okay? I’m not leaving.”

He gently pulled his wrist free of Aziraphale’s slackened grip and took a few steps away. The angel didn’t look away from him, but also made no attempt to follow him either. Distress radiated from him in waves. Crowley tried his best to stay in his line of sight, but the angles between the bath and the bed made it largely impossible - so he kept up a litany of reassuring nonsense any time he couldn’t see Aziraphale. He could only hope it helped somewhat.

When he moved back to the bedroom to get Aziraphale, Crowley found him hunched over, his knees pressed up to his chest, whimpering softly, and covering his ears. Crowley crossed the remaining distance in a heartbeat, alarmed.

“_Ngk, _no no, angel, it’s okay, I’m here—” 

“_Is this real?”_ Aziraphale’s voice was almost inaudible, in fact Crowley wasn’t sure it would actually have been inaudible to mortal ears. Crowley took his hands and threaded his fingers through Aziraphale’s, squeezing lightly.

“It’s real, I’m really here.” He squeezed his hand again. “Feel that? I’m here, and you’re here - you’re out, you’re safe.”

Aziraphale took a deep shuddering breath, picking at the tattered cuff of his shirt. “I thought—I thought—” he sniffled. “Oh goodness, I _stink_.” He wrinkled his nose, a painfully transparent attempt to distract.

Crowley choked back a laugh. “Right well, there’s a bath in the next room, nice and hot. Need a hand?”

Aziraphale uncurled slowly. “Please.”

Crowley helped him to his feet and totter towards the bathroom, a slow shuffling pace. He tried to be as careful as possible, but he could hear the soft winces and gasps that Aziraphale tried to hide. 

As soon as their feet hit the smooth stone of the bathroom floor, steam curling around them, Aziraphale was trying to pull away from him, flashing a small tired smile as if that was supposed to reassure him.

“I think I can manage this from here, dear boy.”

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale looked startled at his vehemence, and Crowley reminded himself to soften his tone. “You can barely stand - I’m not leaving you alone in a tub. What if you drowned and discorporated yourself? Try explaining that in the paperwork, hmm? _Drowned in a demon’s bathtub._ And who knows if they’d even give you another body these days. Anyway, you’ll never be able to undo all those buttons by yourself, and your wings will need properly sorting, and you never do them right, you know? So—so—just strip already, bath is getting cold!” 

Aziraphale looked slightly more amused than Crowley thought was warranted (anything was better than that horrible blankness), but he stopped objecting at least. Even if he had objected, the trembling in his hands as he tried to unbutton his half-shredded waistcoat (where was his coat? Crowley hadn’t seen it at all) would have proven Crowley’s point anyway.

Of course, with his wings out, there was no way he was getting those off. Crowley snapped his fingers and the clothing miracled itself off Aziraphale and into a neat folded pile. Aziraphale yelped and then broke into choking coughs and glared at Crowley reproachfully. Crowley tried to look contrite and then helped the angel into the still-steaming bath, trying not too concerned when Aziraphale resumed the same pose he’d taken on the bed, hunched over his knees protectively, his wings trailing in the water. Already golden swirls were beginning to form.

Crowley set to work, ensuring that every scrap of his own skin was covered (angel blood was dangerous and would hurt a great deal) before taking up a cloth to wash Aziraphale’s trembling corporation. Aziraphale never so much as twitched, holding himself rigidly still except when Crowley gently manoeuvred him to continue washing him. Neither of them said anything, for what was there to say? _Thank you? I’m sorry I didn’t know— _Aziraphale jerked and folded his arms around his waist, under the water, when Crowley moved to clean those.

He didn’t argue.

He bit his lip, lifting down the shower head to rinse off the silent angel. Hair, body, then down through the feathers - and Aziraphale shuddered at the water on his feathers, or perhaps on the gaps where feathers should be. Crowley tried to be as gentle as possible - this was _not_ how he wanted to first touch Aziraphale’s wings, to be free to run his fingers through those soft pearly feathers. Never in six thousand years had he imagined having to do _this_.

“Almost done,” Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale only hunched further over his knees. Was he listening? “I’m not going to hurt you, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, and there was a faint ephemeral feeling like _I know._ Aziraphale was protecting himself, wrapped up in his silence, redirecting his remaining energies towards healing the worst of his injuries. Crowley helped him up, wrapping a fluffy black towel around him, which earned him a small grateful smile.

They shuffled back through to the bedroom, where a set of blue tartan pyjama trousers were folded neatly on the bed for Aziraphale to wear (they weren’t _new _per se, it was just he’d never had a chance to give them to him before; he’d never had the opportunity to stay over before, not with Heaven and Hell watching them so closely). There was, technically speaking, a matching shirt but again, there was no point until Aziraphale regained enough energy to fold his wings away properly. It was one of their greatest vulnerabilities, angels and demons alike, once their energy levels dipped too low, their wings would manifest into the physical realm, prepared to whisk them out of their corporations and back to their respective Sides as a last ditch effort to save them from Extinction. Dreadfully inconvenient, if you asked Crowley, as it often brought further attention from angry, fearful humans - but he’d never gotten that far personally.

As Aziraphale settled the pyjama trousers around his waist, towel draped around his shoulders, something caught Crowley’s eye. His hand snapped out, catching one of Aziraphale’s wrists and pulling it close, turning towards the light.

All along the inner side of his forearm was a flowing light grey text, starting at the wrist and scrolling down to the elbow in three columns - a flashing glance at the other arm showed the same script. A perfect matching set.

Crowley squinted, ripping off his sunglasses as Aziraphale tried to tug his wrist free of his grip. “Is that—that’s pre-Enochian that is. Angel, what…”

Aziraphale looked exceptionally uncomfortable, twisting helplessly. “It’s nothing, leave it, please.”

“Did the humans do this?” A growl was threatening to break through his control. But no, humans had no way of branding an angel like this…

“No, no, of course not!”

Had he ever seen Aziraphale without long sleeves? Always picking at cuffs, especially when he thought he’d done something wrong—

“_Did that bastard Ga—”_

Aziraphale slapped his free hand over Crowley’s mouth, cutting him off, his eyes wide and terrified. “Don’t say _his _name! Do you want to bring him down here?” he rasped. He slowly lowered his hand, trembling all over. “I’m sorry, oh I’m sorry- I just can’t- oh I couldn’t deal with him right now. Any of them.”

Crowley let go of his wrist and the angel sank weakly to the bed. Crowley settled down next to him, unable to drag his gaze away from the marks that marred the pale skin of his wrist. 

He tried again, his voice gentler. “Did…_they_ do this?” He jerked his head Heaven-ward meaningfully.

Aziraphale shook his head, a finger tracing the script, reciting in a hollow voice. “_Cherubim Aziraphale, Guardian of the East Gate, ranked among the Principalities / Casted aside the iron of Heaven and so to the irons of the Earth shall You be Bound / And so Bound in Iron, the Eyes of Heaven will turn from You.” _Aziraphale met Crowley’s gaze squarely. “They didn’t do anything to me, dear boy. _She _did.”

Crowley’s heart froze. “Y-You said they never mentioned it again.”

“And they didn’t. She spoke to me, and I li-li- I didn’t tell her what I did with the sword, but of course She knew regardless.” Aziraphale gave an absent shrug. “My punishment was to be demoted and given…_this_.” He lifted his arms helplessly.

“A curse.”

Aziraphale managed a hesitant smile. “She didn’t make me Fall at least.”

Crowley shot to his feet, clenching his fists. “She fucking _cursed _you, angel! You-You—_ngk _arrrrgh.” His tongue tripped over itself, mangling his angry words. “You can’t jussssst gloss over that, just because you didn’t _Fall_—” A realisation hit him, as sudden as lightning. “What does it do to you, this curse?”

Poetic script and all, it wasn’t exactly clear - typical of Her - but he was starting to have a sneaking suspicion that they hadn’t exactly _told_ Aziraphale what it involved either.

The angel sighed. “It, uh, well, it’s fairly straightforward really.” He fidgeted awkwardly, still refusing to meet Crowley’s eyes. “If I’m bound within something iron - even, iron alloys, though to a lesser extent, the purer the stronger the binding - if I can’t free myself under my own power, then I, uh…” he trailed off, mumbling.

“What was that?”

“It cuts me off from Heaven!” Aziraphale looked up at him, blue eyes bright with unshed tears. “I become, in essence, a mortal. No miracles, nothing.”

Crowley swore. And then kept swearing. He paced back and forth, ranting, incandescent with rage. He swore in every language he knew, and a few that he only half-remembered, directing every inch of his anger towards Heaven, those damned Archangels, and to God Herself. Aziraphale had curled back around himself, hiding the markings from view again, until finally Crowley turned back to him, his sclera fully snake-yellow.

“_That’ssssss why?” _He hissed, mind racing. “In the Bastille? You couldn’t have rescued yourself at all, could you?” He took a step towards the angel, who shrank back from him. “The guillotine wouldn’t have discorporated you, you’d have been _dead _if I hadn’t turned up when I did. You didn’t mean to get caught at all, you made up that whole bullshit about crepes and stern notes so you wouldn’t have to tell me about that.” He pointed at his wrists. “You didn’t trussssst me, even then.”

“_We were on opposite Sides!”_ Aziraphale burst out. “I couldn’t… no one knew, Crowley. Not you, not the Archangels, no one. I couldn’t be v-vulnerable like that. No one could know. I was careful—so careful, and it only happened a few times, and as humans moved away from pure iron objects, it became easier to dodge. No one had ever s-s-summoned me before—” he broke down into tears and all of the anger rushed out of Crowley at once.

He sat down on the bed next to him, wrapping an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders - the angel shook beneath him, shuddering with quiet, gulping sobs. Aziraphale covered his mouth with both hands, muffling the faint noise of his tears even further. Crowley pulled his hands down gently and wrapped him in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into the damp white curls. It was one sorry for so many things: for the curse, for not being there for him sooner, not rescuing him sooner, for yelling. He was sorry that his angel, who had tried so hard to be good and kind, had been reduced to this whimpering, sobbing mess who fought not to be heard crying.

Eventually when Aziraphale’s sobs eased to small gasps, Crowley leaned back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You should sleep, angel. Get some rest, recover a bit, you know?” 

Aziraphale nodded, rubbing his eyes with the back of a hand. “I-I-I don’t sleep, you know that.” But there was no real heart in their banter. “I don’t really even know how.”

Crowley’s returning smile was wobbly at best. “Given everything that’s happened, you just close your eyes and you’ll drop right off in a second. And in the morning, I’ll preen your wings properly and treat you to breakfast.”

A small spark reappeared in Aziraphale’s eyes - _oh. _He wouldn’t have eaten in a few days, would he? Not that they needed to eat, but it would certainly help his energy levels recover. Plus, it would make him feel better, emotionally speaking.

Crowley, not that he would ever admit it out loud, was dying to ask Aziraphale what the humans had done to him - if only so he could go back to Mallory once Aziraphale was well again and inflict every humiliation and pain on him that he had inflicted on his angel. But he’d already pushed Aziraphale’s limits enough tonight, and the haze of exhaustion that clouded his eyes was telling.

Maybe Mallory had burned alive in the auction house fire. One could only hope.

“Right, that’s that settled then,” Crowley stood, taking the towel from Aziraphale with a slight smirk. “Into bed with you, I’m just going to tidy up a bit—” He broke off as a flash of fear crossed Aziraphale’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale cringed, shrinking back from him again. “Ah, nothing, nothing, no matter—”

“Something scared you, angel, what was it?” Crowley narrowed his eyes, looking round the room. “Did you see something?”

“N-No…I just. Thought I heard something.”

“Nothing here; just you and me.” He pretended not to hear Aziraphale’s mumbled _you and I_, and made a quick circuit of the room just in case. Sometimes, there were things that an angel, even an exhausted angel, could pick up on that demons just could not. It was something to do with their halos apparently, and Crowley had never been able to make head nor tail of Aziraphale’s explanation.

While he checked, Aziraphale tried to settle himself amidst Crowley’s silken sheets, wrestling with getting comfortable with his wings still out. Crowley held back a chuckle as he caught sight of him rearranging pillows, wings and feathers askew, huffing at the effort. A blue eye flashed at him from the bed - Aziraphale was curled around a pillow, his wings half-folded and hanging off the bed, looking distinctly out of place.

Crowley tutted fondly and crossed over to him. “Why don’t you lie on your stomach, angel? That’ll be more comfortable than letting your primaries trail on the floor like that.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Then there wouldn’t be room for you - you must be tired, from rescuing me and all.”

This time Crowley did laugh. “Don’t worry about me.” He pushed his exhaustion down deeper - the night wasn’t over yet by a long shot. “Plenty of energy to go around yet.” That made Aziraphale frown, but he didn’t argue, being that a yawn overtook his protests instead. “There, see? Body knows what it needs.” Crowley carefully lifted Aziraphale’s wings up onto the bed, smoothing back some of Aziraphale’s soft white curls back from his face. He let his hand linger for a moment. “_Sleep_.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale struggled against another yawn. “Oh, that’s cheating…” His eyes began to close heavily, but even as drained as he was, he was trying his best to resist Crowley’s mental push towards sleep.

“Too bad, angel. Sleep well.”

Within moments, and after a few more mumbled protests, Aziraphale slipped into a dreamless restorative sleep. That would hopefully keep him under for a few hours.

_Hell_. 

Crowley swiped a hand across his eyes (and he was _not_ crying, damn it all) and fished a new pair of glasses out of his pocket. He tucked the sheets around the angel and straightened up - there would be time to sleep later.

First things first.

He trudged reluctantly down the stairs to the Bentley. He needed to get the feathers and other pilfered angel-adjacent items out of the car _by hand_, since none of them could be miracled, rather like Holy Water in that sense; Aziraphale would have been able to miracle the whole lot back upstairs, but he was stuck doing it the slowest way possible. 

The car was exactly where he’d left it, parked askew outside the flat. Crowley grimaced; the doors had sensibly closed and locked themselves at least, but that was the only mercy. The Bentley looked like an ethereal crime scene, if Crowley had ever wanted to convince Hastur that he’d successfully murdered an angel in his car, this would be the most compelling evidence he could have provided. Angel blood stained most of the enlarged back seats, now dried to a dull brown, his coat was most definitely ruined as well, and there were more loose feathers on the floor from Aziraphale’s near-discorporation. 

_Don’t think about that_, he told himself fiercely. _He’s upstairs, he’s fine, he’s healing now._

_oh._

An image of Aziraphale, lying in the back of the car, a hand outstretched, pleading to Crowley as he locked the doors. _“If I can’t free myself…” _he’d said. 

Crowley groaned and wished there was something other than the Bentley around for him to kick. “How was I supposed to know?” He yelled at nothing and no one in particular. “Not like he’d told me! I was trying to keep him safe!”

He snatched up the briefcase and the plastic bag from the front seat and stormed back up to the flat. He did _not _feel guilty, he did _NOT_. He couldn’t have known, he couldn’t have done anything differently. Aziraphale could have trusted him, could have told him sooner— no, he couldn’t blame Aziraphale for this either, that wasn’t fair. 

He was careful not to make too much noise when he re-entered the flat. The last thing he wanted was to wake Aziraphale now. He would put the feathers and the rest in the safe for now, and Aziraphale could decide what he wanted to do with them in the morning. He froze, midway through closing the safe door - if he locked the flat doors, did that count as locking Aziraphale under iron? No, surely not. There were plenty of windows he could break if he wanted to. He could get out, without miracles, if he was really determined. And the locks weren’t iron, not really. Aziraphale was fine.

He peeked into the bedroom, if only to reassure himself. Aziraphale was still there, still fine, there was no fresh blood on the bed, nothing out of place. He was getting paranoid.

Probably why Aziraphale hadn’t told him the truth sooner.

_—We are younnnnng / so let’s set the world on fiiiiiiiirrrreee~~_

“Shit!” Crowley scrambled across the flat, fumbling to gather up his phone from where he’d abandoned it on the desk in the study. “Shut up, shut up!” He hissed at the blaring mobile. Why did Adam have to mess with his ringtone? Who was calling him at three in the _fucking _morning? Who even had his number?

He missed the days of being able to actually slam buttons and settled for swiping to connect and snarling, _“What?”_

“Is this Mr Anthony J. Crowley?” a familiar voice drawled, rasping and worn, the voice a moth-eaten rug might have, if one cared to hear it speak and it had been kept in a very British household its entire existence.

“What, yeah?” He grimaced. Smooth, Crowley, real smooth… Very menacing. So demon.

“This is Mr Grayson Mallory, of the Mallory Heritage Auction House.” _Shit._

“Ah, Mallory,” Crowley drawled, trying to disguise nervous quiver in his voice. That was remarkably fast tracking for a human. How did he even get this number? “It’s rather late for a social call, don’t you think? Not terribly polite.”

“I would say that theft is a great deal more impolite, wouldn’t you agree, Anthony?” Mallory’s voice had taken on a brittle icy edge. Crowley didn’t like it one bit - it would make an excellent voice for a demon, he’d fit right in in Hell. “I believe you have something of mine. I would like it returned if you please.”

Anger flushed low and hot in Crowley’s belly. “_He_ doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“So you did take it.” Mallory’s voice was a coiled serpent, smug and content. “I am a reasonable man, Anthony, so I will give you two options: one, you return it to me of your own free will, and I will forget both the theft and the _very_ coincidental burning of my auction house; or two, I send someone over to your lovely little penthouse in Mayfair to _collect my property_, and have you arrested for arson. I’m sure you are also a reasonable man.”

Crowley was not a reasonable man. He was not technically a man at all. He was a demon and a serpent, the Original Tempter. Of course, Mallory had no way of knowing any of these facts. So when Crowley burst out of his phone, rematerialising back into his regular size, hissing with anger, it was of great surprise to Mallory, who promptly dropped his phone with a startled scream.

“I really don’t take kindly to be threatened,” Crowley snarled, straightening his jacket. “I also don’t take kindly to people kidnapping and torturing my friends.” And for the third time that day, he whipped off his sunglasses, if only to watch Mallory’s horrified face pale further.

“D-Demon! Y-You’re a—”

Crowley waved a hand, trying to affect a nonchalance he didn’t really feel. In truth, he was terrified - he was, after all, dealing with a man that felt no remorse torturing an _angel_ for Satan’s sake! He looked around the room, wrinkling his nose at the reek of cursed objects - oh look, more devil’s moss, happily smothering and creeping its way up a bonsai tree.

“You really should take greater care. Messing with the occult and all that, something is always bound to go wrong,” Crowley waved his hand again and the devil’s moss ignited itself in sheer delight at the demonic energy in the room. Mallory took a step back from him, his withered hand creeping up to his collar. Crowley lunged forward and grabbed the hand, frowning at it.

“It’s killing me,” Mallory whispered. “The angel did it. It cursed me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Crowley retorted, purely out of reflex. This hand didn’t look good though, it was definitely cursed. “Angels can’t curse.” As Aziraphale had proved, in a rather spectacular fashion, they could do a number of things that demons could do, possession, temptations and the like. But not cursing. 

With his free hand, trembling, Mallory reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a chain - the same one Crowley had seen him clutching at the failed auction - but now he could see the pendant up close. “That’s a _fucking _angel feather.” Fairly small, a tertial feather he guessed - probably escaped the shop during Aziraphale’s last stress-moult. 

“I f-found it a few weeks ago, outside a bookstore in Soho. It wasn’t hard to work out what Mx. Fell _really_ was—” even terrified, confronted with a demon that had manifested out of his mobile, Mallory still managed to sound smug. “—it doesn’t hide very well in modern society. The feather was on the stoop, it was a _sign_ that I was right. I didn’t need to confront it to know. But when I brought the feather home, when I held it in my hand, there was this…white fire and it went into my hand. I aged twenty years overnight. I can feel myself _dying_.” Mallory tugged his hand back, tucking it against his chest. It probably would kill him, Crowley mused, but only if he’d kept wearing the feather against his skin. Idiot was carrying the ethereal equivalent of radioactive material around with him. If Crowley took the feather now and left him, he’d probably still live another thirty years, more if he stopped messing with the occult - he had enough money to keep himself comfortable.

“So you summoned and _tortured _him to what?” Crowley was incredulous. “You didn’t think to just…give the feather back or something? Talk to him, explain, anything like that sounding like a good idea?”

“I summoned him so it would tell me the truth!” Mallory’s voice took on a hard edge. “I went to the bookstore, it denied everything. But once I had it in the container, it kept lying to me. Kept saying there was nothing it could do in the container, nothing it could do to stop me from dying. I just had to keep pushing, it was an angel after all, they’re just tools—”

Crowley snarled, stepping right into Mallory’s personal space, practically nose to nose. “You did this to _yourself_, idiot.” He grabbed the chain and snapped it, careful not to touch the feather itself. “You brought an angel feather into this occult hellhole and then put a hole in it to make some pretty jewellery for yourself, of course it defended itself! And then, to make things worse, you took my friend, and you hurt him.” He shoved the feather into his pocket. _Don’t burn me, I’m going to return you to Aziraphale, _he thought frantically at it. He shoved Mallory, backing him up against a wall. “You summoned and imprisoned an angel, who, by the way, is _incapable _of lying. He can’t even say the word! You bound him and tortured him, no wonder he didn’t want to help you. You almost _killed him_.”

Behind them, the fire of the devil’s moss flared, happily consuming the remaining artefacts it was sharing a table with. It would keep eating until it was satisfied, or until it burned itself out. Just like the demons that made them. He couldn’t get the images out of his head: Aziraphale huddled in that cage, bound and gagged, without even the energy to scream; his feathers all neatly strapped into a display case, still coated in blood from being ripped out of their places on the wing; vials of golden blood and pearly tears. 

“Ripping out feathers, blood, tears - what, so you could sell them? Make a potion to ‘cure’ yourself? How many pieces were you going to carve out of him?” He hissed. “It’s all profit with you humans, trying to show him off like a carnival show once you realised he couldn’t actually heal you. _Pride of your collection, _I heard you. Priceless. Dearer than all the rest of your collection.” He snapped his fingers, and all the doors in the room sealed themselves. “Well as it turns out, it won’t be an angel feather that kills you. It’ll be a demon. Or maybe it’ll be the fire. You really shouldn’t keep devil’s moss around your valuables. Oh. And one last thing—”

He smiled, all teeth and flashing fangs, letting his wings out. They flapped once, settling into a threatening mantle, a pure black wall, illuminated only by the fire steadily raging behind him. His yellow sclera had expanded, scales began to ripple across his skin, and his nails slowly lengthened into claws. Aziraphale would be terribly cross with him once he heard, but this…human had nearly killed him. Permanently.

All things must pass eventually. But not _his _angel.

_“His name is Aziraphale.”_


	3. The Morning After

Crowley woke with a corded cushion pressed into his face and taste of ash in his mouth. He groaned, slowly opening his eyes and levering himself upright. He’d fallen asleep on the couch? He hated the couch, it was hard and uncomfortable - deliberately so, he didn’t want to encourage visitors, and it was mostly for show anyway. Not like Aziraphale’s couch, which, much like Aziraphale himself, was soft, comfortable and well worn.

_Aziraphale_.

Memories of the right before came crashing back as he scrambled to his feet. What time was it? The sunlight was bright through the high windows, so it was probably late morning already - but that didn’t help one bit; he’d once slept through the better part of a century.

He staggered through to the bedroom, still fuzzy with sleep, and tiredness still lingered at his edges. He should probably spend the day mostly resting, recovering. He’d seriously overdone it yesterday.

The bedroom was empty. No angel, the bed was neatly made, blue tartan pyjamas neatly folded at the foot. 

Crowley swore. And then swore some more. Had Aziraphale woken up while Crowley was away or asleep and just…left? No goodbye, no thank you, nothing.

He charged out of the flat, still covered in soot and ash and angel blood (maybe some human blood too), and down the stairs to the Bentley. After everything he’d done. He was going to drive right over to the bookstore and give that angel a piece of his mind—

That angel—

Who was right in front of him.

Crowley screeched to a halt, midway down the steps, dumbfounded. Aziraphale was crouched beside the open door to the Bentley; he’d forgone his coat and waistcoat, clad only in a sky-blue shirt and beige trousers. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, showing off his curse marks. He seemed not to notice Crowley standing in the doorway, intent on his task. He reached down, dipping a sponge into a bucket of clear water and then leant back inside the car.

“What are you doing?”

_Smooth. Real master of charm, I am._

Aziraphale jumped, looking at him over his shoulder, and then gave him a glorious smile. It was a proper angel smile, genuine delight, that warmed you right down to your bones.

“Good morning Crowley.” Crowley fought not to wince at Aziraphale’s broken rasping voice. That would take a lot more than a few hours rest to recover from. “I didn’t expect you to wake for another hour or so, I’d hoped to have this finished before you got up.” Aziraphale looked him up and down and wrinkled his nose. “Though you might have cleaned up first.”

_What? _Crowley stared at him, stuttering in confusion. “I. Thought you’d left.”

Aziraphale’s teasing expression vanished and his eyes softened with compassion. “Oh, dear boy, never. I just wanted to—well, you see—” he gestured weakly with sponge.

Crowley squinted, and was shocked to see the backseats of the car looking near pristine. They were practically glowing. Had they looked that nice even when they were new?

“It was a bit of a mess,” Aziraphale said softly. “I…don’t _entirely_ remember last night. But I thought, well, the least I could do was fix the car for you. It was my blood after all.” He laughed, but it was a laugh without real humour in it. “It would burn you, you know. So when I woke up this morning, I thought—”

He stood, miracling away the sponge and the bucket and closing the car door behind him - an effort that clearly cost him as he grimaced and staggered a moment later. Crowley lunged forward to steady him, panic tripping at his heart.

“Might have overdone it a little,” Aziraphale mumbled, resting his head against Crowley’s shoulder, breathing heavily.

“You think!” Crowley willed his heart to slow. “Let’s get you back upstairs, angel. That’s enough adventure for one week.”

“I quite agree, dear boy.” He flashed Crowley another smile, weak but earnest. “Though I may need you to help me back up the stairs.”

“You’re racking up a lot of favours here,” Crowley teased, if only to see Aziraphale smile some more, as they limped inside together.

“I’ll knit you another sweater for Christmas then.”

“We both know I’m the better knitter between us.”

“I’ll take you the new botanical garden then. We can have a picnic.”

“Oh that _does_ sound nice.”

Aziraphale wheezed as they ascended the last few steps. “You should move…somewhere without stairs.”

“Agreed.” Crowley shoved the idea of moving into the bookstore firmly out of his head - now was not the time for that sort of thought. Maybe in another century or two. Let Aziraphale get used to the idea of being free of Heaven first. Or maybe they could move in together somewhere else. Cottages are nice, he mused, helping Aziraphale stumble back into the bedroom. He hadn’t lived in a cottage since…definitely a few centuries. He’d had a proper garden then too.

Aziraphale sat down heavily on the bed, looking up at him with soft tired eyes. “Thank you.”

Crowley hissed at him, but without menace. “Don’t thank me, angel. Just couldn’t have you collapsing in the street by my car. People might think I hit you or something.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale smiled at him anyway, and Crowley tried not to flush.

He looked away uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Right. Well. Shirt off - you probably didn’t preen them properly this morning, and we may as well make sure they’re healing right.”

Aziraphale blushed scarlet, starting to fidget. “I really don’t think that’s necessary—”

Crowley lifted his fingers, ready to snap, and Aziraphale yelped, hands flying to his shirt buttons. “Okay, okay, I’m taking it off.”

Technically, neither of them really needed to remove their shirts to unfurl their wings, but since Aziraphale’s shirt was actual material, rather than made of magic like Crowley’s, it was easier to shed clothing in order to reach all of the feathers near the spine.

There was a soft whoosh and a faint smell of ozone as Aziraphale’s wings unfurled into the physical plane. Crowley looked them over with a critical eye, while Aziraphale refused to look up, hunching over himself defensively. When Crowley reached out to touch one of the feathers, the entire wing jerked in a flinch.

“Angel.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Aziraphale cringed. “I’m just—I haven’t—”

Crowley hushed him. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Why don’t you lie on your front and try to relax, hmm? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Aziraphale nodded sharply and turned away. Crowley helped him settle his wings, stretching them out, careful to notice how tense and jumpy Aziraphale was. Judging by the number of holes in his wings, he wasn’t entirely surprised that the angel was nervous about having them touched. The bath last night had helped get rid of the worst of the dried blood and the dirt, but there were still broken feathers and shafts to get rid of, and most of the feathers were out of place.

“When was the last time you groomed these anyway?”

With his face down in the pillows, Aziraphale mumbled an answer that Crowley couldn’t quite hear. He tapped the pale shoulder. “What was that?”

Aziraphale turned his head just enough to be audible, his face still red. “I…I don’t. I used to do it myself, but Gabriel would always scold me about what a bad job I’d done, so I would…leave it until he turned up and did it himself. No point in duplicating the effort.”

“Right.” Crowley closed his mouth with an audible snap. The last time either of them had seen or heard from Gabriel, as far as Crowley knew, was Heaven’s attempt to execute Aziraphale after the failed Apocalypse a year ago. His feathers must have itched horribly, even if they were tucked away on their own celestial plane. Crowley gave his own a cursory once-over at least once a week. Fortnightly, if he was busy.

He focused all his anger towards Gabriel, towards Heaven, towards Mallory, and directed that energy into sorting Aziraphale’s wings for him and undoing as much damage as he could. Demonic miracles didn’t work on angel wings - or else demons would just be miracling the wings off of angels every day of the year.

Even with his promise to be as quick as possible, there was only so fast Crowley could go - Azirphale’s full wingspan was a little over twelve feet and that meant a lot of feather to cover. He worked his way from the farthest left primaries all the way along to the downy feathers by the spine, and then back up the right wing. It still took hours, picking apart matted feathers, removing broken feathers, sorting the ones that could be sorted, checking to see if the new feathers were starting to grow in yet. He was meticulous and thorough, trying not to miss anything, while murmuring the occasional encouragement. Aziraphale said nothing further the entire time, retreating into himself, tense and uncomfortable the entire time.

It wasn’t exactly how Crowley had imagined preening Aziraphale might go.

But then again, he thought, would he have been entirely comfortable with Aziraphale’s hands in his wings? Since the Fall he’d only ever taken care of his wings himself. He wouldn’t trust anyone in Hell to do it for him, and he hadn’t ever asked Aziraphale to help - it would have looked too suspicious to both their respective Sides if they had.

“All done.”

Aziraphale breathed a small sigh of relief, curling up in on himself and folded his wings away immediately. Crowley sat down next to him, feeling emotionally wrung out. He was still covered in ash and soot from the night before, he should really go shower. He could miracle himself clean, but it wouldn’t feel the same.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmured, his back to Crowley.

“What for?”

“Y-You’ve been…so good to me. Rescued me. Fixed m-my wings.” He sniffled. “I…I hoped you would come. I was sure you would. You always do.”

Crowley swallowed hard. He hadn’t even _known_ Aziraphale was missing - what kind of best friend was he? “I uh. I’m just glad I got you out when I did. And well. He won’t be bothering you again.”

“I knew you’d take care of it.” Aziraphale’s voice had dipped to a tired mumble. “Always taking care of me.”

“Well you know.” He had never been so glad Aziraphale’s back was turned. “You’d do the same for me.”

A long silent moment passed before he realised, unbelievably, the angel had fallen asleep. Crowley sighed quietly. “Rest well, angel.”

He got up slowly, stiff, and stretched before limping into the bathroom. He needed to clean last night’s filth off and try and forget how close they’d both come to extinction in the last few days. Should he tell Aziraphale he’d almost discorporated them both in the car, or did he remember? Did he know it had been three days since he’d been taken prisoner? That Crowley had taken _three whole days_ to find him?

Crowley growled, turning the water up until it was scaldingly hot and stepped inside, miracling his clothes away. They were ruined anyway. He stood in the middle of the spray, too tired to even scrub at his hair. He just wanted to close his eyes for a moment, to let the water just wash away the horrors of the last twenty-four hours.

_“Crowley! Crowley!”_

His eyes flew open, staring up into Aziraphale’s bright blue ones, limp in his arms as he was bodily hauled out of the now-freezing shower. His teeth were chattering uncontrollably and Aziraphale hastily grabbed a towel, wrapping him in it and rubbing his arms frantically.

“What were you thinking?” Aziraphale croaked. “You could have discorporated, you—” He rubbed at his eyes for a moment, and then returned to trying to warm Crowley’s frigid body back up. “I woke up and heard the shower running, but I thought—You’re lucky I thought to check, if I’d slept any longer, I would found—” The angel was panting by this point, near distraught. “I would have found your body!”

Crowley wished he had the energy to reassure him, but he was so very cold and tired and Aziraphale was rubbing his limbs so vigorously that he couldn’t even have pulled them away from him. He winced when Aziraphale rubbed his numb fingers and toes back to life, and then furiously scrubbed at his hair.

“Azir—Angel, I can handle—” Crowley fought to wiggle free of the towel over his head and looked up into Aziraphale’s eyes which were bright with unshed tears.

“I don’t have any energy left to miracle you warm and dry,” Aziraphale retorted. “And judging by the way you’re flailing, neither do you.” He threw another (drier) towel over Crowley’s shoulders. “I’m going to find you some warm clothes. Stay put.”

The angel shuffled and stumbled his way back into the bedroom, as if he hadn’t really slept at all. Crowley felt a twist of guilt - he was supposed to be taking care of Aziraphale and instead he’d ended up the one that needed taking care of! That wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go!

He shivered, pulling the towel tighter around his thin shoulders.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale stumbled back into the bathroom, carrying a bundle of clothes. “You really don’t like material clothing, do you? Most of this seems to be more my size than yours to be honest, but beggars can’t be choosers, especially when they can’t manage any miracles.”

He started wrestling Crowley into one of the shirts, pouting when Crowley waved him off. “I can dress myself, it’s fine.” Aziraphale looked at him doubtfully for a moment and then straightened up.

“I think I’ll go put the kettle on then. I think we could both use a hot drink.”

“Great, uh, thanks,” Crowley muttered, his head half-stuck in a jumper. “There’s food in the fridge - help yourself!”

By the time he wrestled his rather uncooperative corporation in a satisfying number of layers to stop the shivering and combed his hair into something remotely resembling his usual preferred style, he urged himself on towards the kitchen.

Aziraphale had not been idle while he’d been fighting with mortal clothing. Crowley’s kitchen had never seen this much usage in its entire existence: two mugs were sitting out at the breakfast bar, one tea, one coffee, on either side of what was practically a buffet of food. Crowley didn’t even realise he had this much food lying around. He always kept the fridge well-stocked (mostly for appearances sake, but sometimes just in case Aziraphale popped round and got peckish) but this was more than he thought it was possible for him to have kept.

Crumpets, crepes, croissants, scones, jams Crowley had never ever heard of (never mind remembered buying), toast, eggs, fresh cold meats…

In short, anything and everything that could be made quickly for breakfast.

Aziraphale was sitting at the breakfast bar, idly picking at a croissant, one hand wrapped another a still full mug of tea. He’d replaced his shirt, back in his lovely sky-blue favourite, with his waistcoat on but unbuttoned.

His curse marks were still on display. Crowley shivered, just as Aziraphale looked up and gave him a mildly sympathetic smile.

“Come have your coffee, dear. That’ll warm you up toot sweet.”

_Toot sweet_. Crowley tried not to roll his eyes and failed, sliding into his seat. “You must be feeling better if you’re saying nonsense like that again.”

“The food is helping.” If he didn’t know Aziraphale as well as he did, he would have called that a lie. Maybe this wasn’t his first croissant. Maybe he’d eaten quite a bit before Crowley had come through.

He didn’t want to ask.

Aziraphale pushed a scone at him, his face set as stern as he could manage. “Eat something.”

Crowley pulled a face and shoved the whole scone in his mouth at once, swallowing it in a single gulp like the snake he was. “Satisfied?” Aziraphale looked pointedly disgusted.

“You didn’t even chew it! You didn’t savour it at all!”

Crowley shrugged. “Savouring’s more your thing than mine.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Deplorable.” He returned to just picking at his croissant, clearly deep in thought.

Several minutes passed in companionable silence, the only sounds were the familiar noise of cups and cutlery. How often had they done this over the years? Aziraphale eating, Crowley watching him, both of them keeping an eye on what was going on around them - watching each other’s backs so carefully.

_I almost lost him. Again._

“Do you…” Crowley cleared his throat as his voice cracked. “Do you want to talk about. You know. All this?” He waved a hand awkwardly in the air. “‘Cause, I’ll listen. If you want.”

Oh, he sounded like an idiot. Aziraphale was going to think he was a complete moron.

Aziraphale stayed quiet for a moment, pushing his croissant to one side. “There really isn’t much to say I think.”

“You can be honest, Aziraphale.” He reached across the bar and touched his hand lightly.

“The last few days have been…frankly awful.” He finally admitted, looking down at Crowley’s hand touching his own. “Summoning is certainly unpleasant, I can see why you always hated so much whenever it happened. But. He. That man.” Aziraphale struggled for a moment and then finished the Mallory’s chain out of his pocket.

He held it up between them, watching it spin on the chain, sparkling and gleaming in the early afternoon light. Crowley could still feel the slightly menacing air around it, an angel’s feather dipped in malice.

He cleared his throat. “How’d you get that?”

“You left this out last night after you got back, I found it this morning. It’s hard to believe, this little feather causing so much damage. Because I was careless.”

“No!” Crowley gripped his hand tightly. “No, angel, none of this was your fault. It was his fault, not yours. No one forced him to pick it up, no one forced him to summon you, to torture you!”

“I couldn’t make him believe me.” Aziraphale’s eyes welled up with fresh tears. “I could have healed him, I could have, if he’d just taken the chains off!”

“He wouldn’t have let you go.” Crowley had seen the look in his eyes when Mallory had spoken of Aziraphale. That fervent possessive light. “Even if you had healed him, he would have put you right back in those chains the second he got what he wanted. He was a collector, Aziraphale. And you would have been his trophy.”

Aziraphale turned his arm over, exposing his curse marks to the light again. “Because of these.”

Crowley had nothing to say to that. He ran a finger down one of the columns of script. He couldn’t read them, the symbols swirled and blurred to his eyes - a punishment for the Fallen, to be stripped of the ability to read and understand the ancient language of Angel-kind. Enochian wasn’t a problem, but this was far older and far more sacred than any demon was allowed to have knowledge of. Aziraphale shivered at his featherlight touch.

“We’ll find a way to get these off you.” Crowley locked eyes with Aziraphale. “I don’t care that God Herself did this to you. Someone will know a way to undo the curse.”

The look in Aziraphale’s eyes said that he didn’t quite believe him, but he was touched by the sentiment nonetheless.

Crowley pushed a crepe in front of Aziraphale with his free hand. “Eat. And then I’ll drive you back to the bookstore and you can decide what to do with all these feathers I nicked back from Mallory.”

“That would be lovely, dear boy. I’d appreciate that.”

Aziraphale threaded his fingers through Crowley’s, picking up a fork with his free hand to start in on the crepe. It had to have been awkward, even uncomfortable. But he didn’t let go, he just kept daintily eating his crepe one handed, seemingly unwilling to let go of the demon. They’d held hands before, course they had, but this felt.

Different.

_Good_ different.

Crowley didn’t mind. If that’s what Aziraphale wanted—

Well, it was what he wanted too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the end! Thank you to everyone who’s been reading and commenting and kudos’ing; I was super worried about this fic, but everyone seems to be enjoying it!

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Good Omens blog now! Come say hi if you liked the fic and you'd like to see more!
> 
> VeilfireOmens: https://veilfireomens.tumblr.com


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